


Hush

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Friendship, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy and Angie settle in at their new home, and Peggy gets a much-needed pep talk. Minor spoilers for the season finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

Angie wakes up in the middle of the night.

It's not that the bed isn't comfortable, or that she's too hot or too cold; it's just that this new place is too damn _quiet_. All those high ceilings swallow up sound until her ears ring with the silence of it. Ever since everything that happened at the Griffith, she's been a little jumpier than usual, ears straining for something out of place.

She doesn't know, but she knows. She knows there's something big and bad shadowing Peggy, some ambiguous force that would do her harm, and it scares Angie to think she might not even hear that thing coming. Maybe it walks soft enough to get swallowed up in this big house.

She sits up—quite an effort, with the duvet and the pillows and the _divine_ mattress trying to keep her pinned, warm and comfortable, to the bed. If she just peeks in on Peggy, she'll feel better.

She swings her feet to the cool hardwood floor and ties her robe tight around her waist to ward off the chill. Peggy's room is just across the hall, and they both sleep with their doors just barely ajar, so it's easy enough to tiptoe over and stick her head inside.

Peggy's bed is empty.

For a minute, Angie just stares at the rumpled sheets, not daring to breathe. It doesn't look like there was a scuffle, or a fight, but what would she know about any of that?

It's too early to panic. Maybe Peggy's downstairs. Maybe she couldn't sleep, either.

Angie stays light on her feet while she walks, even so. She wishes there were something less fragile-looking to pick up, just in case there _is_ something wrong and she needs to swing at someone. Sure, she's punched a guy before, but she doubts most of Peggy's enemies will be thrown off by a bloody nose.

At the bottom of the stairs, she pauses to listen. There's a little scuffling sound coming from her left—the kitchen.

She turns, taking care to tread quietly. At the end of the hall, a long panel of light falls across the gleaming hardwood. Angie's heart beats faster now, muscles tense; there's a sharp intake of breath from inside the room—

She steps into the light, and it's just Peggy, hunched over a cup of coffee, her eyes suspiciously bloodshot. She must see Angie through the fall of her hair, because she starts back, the movement sudden and violent, shoulders squaring, chin lifting—

Then she realizes, and she sinks back into her chair, blowing out a shaky breath. "Oh. Angie. It's only you."

Peggy hasn't told her the story yet—not more than the broadest strokes, the briefest of outlines. Angie doesn't know exactly why, but if even half of the things she suspects about Peggy are true, she gets it. She doesn't _like_ it, but she gets it.

"I couldn't sleep, either," Angie says, moving to the gleaming countertop. "What're you drinking?"

"Coffee." There's a distinct note of disdain in Peggy's voice. "It's terrible."

Angie pops open the coffee pot to see the mess inside. "Yeah, no wonder, English. Pour that out, I'll make the good stuff."

Peggy lets out a relieved sigh. "You're a lifesaver. Truly."

Angie smiles. Everyone can say what they like about how demeaning it is, serving someone else coffee, but when it's someone _you_ care about, that cup of coffee's like all the fondness in the world, passed over to another person to keep them warm. As long as she's not serving it in a diner, she likes making coffee just fine.

Even then, as long as the customers play nice, there are worse jobs.

Peggy pours out her coffee at the sink and then stands awkwardly to the side while Angie dumps the worst of the filter and grounds in the trash and rinses the rest from the top pot. By the time the coffee's gurgling again, Peggy's slipped back into her own thoughts; she gets this unfocused look in her pretty brown eyes when she's not really there, nibbles at this one spot on her bottom lip. Usually her lipstick hides the perpetual crack there, but without it, her worry is visible.

Her lips are a pretty shade even without that stunning lipstick, an unassuming pink that softens her whole face.

_Cool down, Martinelli_ , she tells herself, reaching up to the cabinets above the sink. "You know what would help? Whiskey."

Peggy looks up, the faintest of smiles curving her lips. "Help with what?"

"Whatever's eating you." Angie pulls a gleaming bottle down. "Must be good stuff. I don't even recognize the name."

Peggy's eyebrows draw together when she’s uneasy, her brow creasing. "Angie—"

"I know you can't talk about it. I just wanna help, that's all." She moves around Peggy to get in the fridge, fully stocked by a housekeeper neither of them have managed to spot so far.

"I doubt you could be unhelpful if you tried."

Angie straightens up, whipping cream in hand. "My mother has a few stories that could prove you wrong."

Peggy laughs—the smallest, quietest thing, more a stutter of air than any voice at all—and Angie's a goner. She was already a goner, really. Hard not to be for this pretty, mysterious, kind of melancholy gal who keeps flitting in and out of her life and who's finally invited her in to stay.

But Peggy doesn't have the energy for something like that, not right now. Someday, Angie thinks, when their lives aren't so inside-out, when Peggy starts sleeping more and crying over coffee in the kitchen less.

Her resolve strengthened, she assembles the coffee: sugar stirred in, whiskey poured, cream doled out. She passes Peggy's mug back to her and waits for her to taste the first sip, and Angie knows when it touches her tongue because the crease in her brow smoothes out, and her eyes flutter closed. She doesn't make a sound, but goes back for another sip immediately.

They lean against the counter and drink in comfortable silence, and when Peggy's mug is half-empty, she says, "I was sacked last week."

Angie has a good sympathetic face—a good waitress always does—but it's genuine now. "Aw, English. I'm sorry."

"It wasn't permanent," she amends. "After everything that happened, I've been told I can go back to work."

Angie studies her. She's got a real stiff upper lip when she wants to, face not giving anything away.

"Those guys," Angie says. "The fatheads."

Peggy's in the middle of swallowing, and she chokes on the coffee. Before she can turn her face away to cough, Angie sees her grin.

"They're your coworkers, right?" Angie goes on, patting her on the back in case it helps.

"Yes," Peggy manages. There's color in her face from sputtering, bright blooms on her cheeks.

"And they handcuffed you and stuck you in the back of a car."

She chuckles. "I believe we've come to an...understanding, since that incident."

"Incident?" Angie laughs. "You sure know how to brush off being arrested."

"It was a misunderstanding," Peggy insists, still smiling. "But you're right. They _were_ fatheads. They might still be."

"So, do you wanna go back?"

She doesn't answer immediately; an ounce of frustration creeps into her voice when she does. "No."

"Problem solved."

She sighs. "It's not that simple. If I don't go back, then...nothing changes. I might have done enough to start something, but if someone doesn't keep _pushing_ , that will all be for nothing." Her nose wrinkles up. "Besides, I'm dreadful when I'm not working."

"Guess you've made up your mind, then."

Peggy looks down at her drink. "I suppose I have."

Her hand—the one not holding the mug—rests against the countertop, only inches from Angie's. On impulse, Angie reaches out; Peggy glances down, her brows drawn up in surprise, but doesn't pull away from the hand covering hers.

"You're gonna change the world, Peggy," she says. She sounds too earnest, even to her own ears, but she believes it. She believes it, and she wants Peggy—who has always, _always_ believed in her—to know. "I just know it."

Peggy's smiles are always pretty, but this one is the prettiest of them all: a little crooked, her eyes soft and uncertain, like Angie's caught her off guard. "You can't claim to know the future," she says, but there's no reprimand at all in her voice.

"Hush," Angie orders. "Drink your whiskey."

They talk of lighter things—another of Angie's upcoming auditions, the absurd house that they now call _home_ —and Peggy doesn't move her hand, and Angie doesn't move hers, and for a moment both too short and so long, Peggy's fingers turn up and squeeze Angie's when they part for the night.

It's enough to make a girl drum her heels on her oversized bed like a teenager, pillow over her face to hide her silly grin.


End file.
